


Early Days (series #1): Collection #2

by sweepeaspatch



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2019-09-22 22:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17068571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweepeaspatch/pseuds/sweepeaspatch
Summary: More stories about the early days in Paradise.





	1. It's Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Story List:  
> 1\. It's Beginning to Feel a lot like Christmas (6 parts)  
> 2\. Year Three aka Snowy Snowy Night  
> 3\. Ooh-ooh, That Lovin' Feelin'  
> 4...WiP...

**I left this story too late to allow for 12 days so I’ll send it out 1/day instead**

**It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas**

Part 1 of 6

Year One

December 1st dawns horribly bright and sunny. The mercury hovers at 100 degrees by 9 am and Detective Inspector Richard Poole seconded to the Saint-Marie constabulary (and hopefully still of The Met), has had enough! More than enough - he is bloody well fried! He looms in the station doorway; over-heated, over-dressed, and over-the-edge. He skewers each of his officers in turn with a gimlet eye and says in tones of doom, “There had better not be any bloody Christmas nonsense in this office if you know what’s good for you!” He then stalks to his desk and manages not to have a heat-induced coronary for the rest of the day.

He watches his so-called team with utmost care. _Bloody locals! I don’t trust ‘em as far as I can throw ‘em!_

They are watching him right back! _Bloody Brit! What a spoil-sport! He can’t stop us!_

But he does stop them. It is a constant skirmish from December 2 – 25 to prevent the insidious intrusion of tinsel, ornaments, sparkly fake greens, and all manner of useless fol-der-rol into his inner sanctum. On January 1st, he tears December off his calendar with savage glee and shreds it into his waste bin with great delight. _Christmas! Bah! Humbug! I can’t wait to effing go home!!_

Oddly enough, his so-called team is more or less thinking the very same thing but with a different pronoun.

Year Two

December 1st dawns horribly bright and sunny. The mercury hovers at 101 degrees by 9 am but Richard has skimmed into the station well ahead of the sun and is already ensconced at his desk in his shirtsleeves when the rest of the team arrives.  They hover in the doorway, observing and testing the wind, trying to get a hint of his mood. Camille holds up a cautionary hand to the other two officers and ventures in on her own, “Morning.”

He doesn’t even look up, “Morning. It’s all right, you can tell those two to come on in. I’m not going to bite your heads off.” He shuffles papers from the ‘do’ pile to the ‘done and dusted’ pile.

“You’re not?” She beckons to Fidel and Dwayne and they slip inside to their desks. “Does this mean…?”

“Yes, yes, you can celebrate… a bit.” His head comes up and he gives her a long-suffering look, “But please remember that this is a public office and not a mall. No music, no red hats, and no tinsel!”

She can’t help saying in a teasing voice, “I see you’ve started celebrating early.” His puzzled look makes her sigh and she gestures to his tie.

He glances down and slumps ever so slightly, “Oh, the red stripe is completely accidental… and very understated if I may express an opinion. This hardly counts as ‘celebrating’, does it?”

“No, sir, not a’tall,” Dwayne chimes in loyally while winking at Fidel.

“Yes, sir, that’s not a Christmas tie at all. You should see mine! It’s horrendous. Rosie likes it, though.”

Richard nods at this, “Yes, Christmas is for children, mostly. Although, I must say, I like a nice hot plum pudding but not in this heat. What wouldn’t I give for a nice cool day with just a hint of snow in the air.” He sighs forlornly and goes back to work, remembering all the white Christmases of his past. Something in his voice makes his officers look at him with sympathy… and a signal is passed back and forth.

By the end of the day, a cunning plan is hatched. Not that they mean to wind him up. No, of course not, not at all! But it is just so much fun!

December 2

Fidel strings a little paper-chain across his desk front. It is crooked and a bit chewed but since Rosie obviously helped make it… utterly adorable. Richard nods when he sees it and smiles on his way by, “Very nice, Fidel. A touch of family always helps during this trying time.”

“Trying time? Doesn’t your family send you tokens here?” Fidel asks.

Richard shrugs and begins unpacking his briefcase, “Oh, a card or two is hardly the same, is it?”

December 3

All the desks now sport little paper-chains across their fronts. Dwayne laughs to see his is made from the newspaper sports section. Camille coos over hers as it is sparkly and bright. They all watch Richard very carefully as he runs a hand along the uneven links at his desk. For a moment, they fear he will rip it down… but he doesn’t. He smiles and says, “Where ever did you find pin-striped paper?”

Fidel grins in relief, “Oh, Juliet thought of that. We just used coloured papers and drew lines on it with a white pencil. Rosie knew exactly who the chain was meant for too. She talked about the specker all the while. She’s very pleased. Can I tell her that you like it?”

Keeping his back carefully to the room, Richard answers quietly, “Yes, you can tell her I like it.”

Camille gives him a moment before coming over to admire the pinstripes. Sotto voce she murmurs, “You big softy, you. Thanks for being nice about it.”

He huffs, “Camille, I’m always nice.” She gives him a stroppy look that almost makes him laugh but he manages to keep a straight face, “Well, I am! And don’t you forget it.”

She smiles, “No, sir, I won’t forget it. I’m making a mental note – ‘Nice to babies’.”

END – part 1


	2. It's Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas - part 2 of 6

** Part 2 of 6 **

December 5

Richard comes in to a subtly changed office. It’s nothing he can really put his finger on but he knows the station has been decorated in his absence. He enjoys finding all the tiny holiday touches one at a time as they reveal themselves. Really, the team is being very circumspect in their embellishments.

December 10

Things have been quiet for the past five days but this morning there is music on the radio. Dwayne reaches for the volume knob, “Sorry, Chief. The stations are all running holiday music off and on now. I’ll find another channel.”

“No, no, it’s all right. How are we to keep up with local happenings if we don’t listen to the local news, hmmm?” As he drops his jacket onto his chair back, he muses, “Maybe turn down the rock and roll versions, if you don’t mind.”

Dwayne nods happily, “I can do that, Chief. Hey, have you heard our Caribbean holiday songs?”

“No, Dwayne, I can’t say as I have. Are they very different?”

“Oh, yes, Chief. You might not recognize any of them. Here, give a listen, this is one of my favourites.” He turns the dial up and the music wafts melodically out into the bright day. Richard listens very carefully and is surprised to discover that he likes it. Ergo, music is now allowed.

December 15

“Christmas dinner… will you let us invite you to one?” Camille mutters quietly at his elbow during break.

He is so relieved that he can hardly keep the excitement out of his voice, “There’s a dinner is there?”

She smiles, “Several. Which one would you like to attend?”

He pretends to think if over, “How many are there?”

She begins ticking off fingers, “Well, there’s Fidel’s. Juliet has been looking up British recipes for days now in case you come to theirs. Dwayne is planning a bonfire with rum. Maman is having a small gathering for that roast beef dinner you like so much. And I…”

He darts a glance so swift that she almost misses it, “Yes? What are you planning?”

She looks away, “Well, I’d like to host an intimate evening with wine and light entertainment. I really hope…”

“I’d like that,” he interrupts then catches himself, “Sorry, you were saying?”

She meets his eyes, “Oh, nothing special, really… just you and me and…”

He frowns, “And?”

She bumps his shoulder with hers, “And… the wine.”

He can’t help but smile nervously, “A Rioja?”

She holds his gaze for a long moment and he seems to still completely before she smiles slow, “Naturally. What else would suit the occasion?”

He is at a loss for words, his store of witty repartee totally exhausted, and only shakes his head.

Dwayne and Fidel are very surprised upon hearing the Chief will be attending their parties. Party plans ramp up into the stratosphere until Richard has to tell them to keep it simple as crime never takes a holiday. They all laugh and agree. Heads must be kept cool and the station manned as usual… but everyone is extremely chuffed just the same. Only Catherine isn’t surprised. Her roast beef dinner has quite the reputation now and she was sure he couldn’t resist.

Of all the plans, he is most eager to attend Camille’s although he refuses to let himself think why.

END – part 2


	3. It's Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas - part 3 of 6

**Part 3 of 6**

December 18

Juliet outdoes herself. The meal is wonderful. The decorations are wonderful… strange but wonderful. Richard entertains the entire party with stories of snow and sleet and blinding fogs, of blackouts and fireplaces and chopping wood, of cholesterol-deadly puddings and bakings and nogs. Rosie listens with wide eyes and informs her parents in mime that she wants to go to England to see it all, eat it all, feel the cold and catch snowflakes on her tongue.

Fidel grins, “Maybe when you’re older, Rosie. We don’t have enough warm clothes.”

“S’OK,” Rosie pipes up, “Specker help?”

Richard laughs, “Certainly, although your mama will look funny in one of my suits, won’t she? Your papa is too big to fit my clothes… and you’re too small. I don’t think your plan will work at all, sorry.” Everyone laughs at her tragic face but she decides that a shopping trip is in order and the day is saved.

“Gee, thanks for that, sir,” Fidel grouses. “That’s all I need, another shopping trip!”

“You’re welcome, Fidel,” Richard scoffs. “Anything to keep the ladies happy, hey?”

Camille leans in quietly, “Oh, I hope you truly believe that!”

Richard’s radar buzzes loudly but he keeps his voice down as he answers, “Believe in what?”

She barely makes herself heard above the happy hubbub all around them, “In keeping the ladies happy.”

He swallows dryly, “I believe in it most heartily, trust me.”

She smiles and his heart thuds a bit painfully, “Good. I’ll hold you to it for my little soirée.”

“Um, good. When is that, exactly?”

“Can I have you all to myself on Christmas Eve, please?”

“Oh, um, aren’t you supposed to be in church?” is all he can think to say. _All to myself! She said ‘all to myself’!_ He shivers.

“Not really. Our priest is elderly and can’t manage a midnight mass anymore. Most people go the next morning at 9.”

“Oh. Would it… would it be an imposition if I went with you?”

She sighs happily, “Not at all, Richard. Christmas mass tends to be a bit boisterous but the music is lovely.” Her eyes flick up to his then down again, “Um, Maman will be there too. Will you mind?”

His hand brushes hers ever so slightly, “Why would I mind? Church is a very personal thing and I’m… I’m pleased that you would include me. I’ll try not to get in the way.”

Her hand brushes his ever so firmly, “You won’t be in the way, trust me. I’m pleased too.”

They are interrupted by coffee and desserts. Juliet is very sorry but she just didn’t feel up to trying to brew proper tea. Richard assures her it isn’t necessary as the company more than makes up for the lack of tannic concoctions and the evening ends on a high note with Rosie helping the Specker eat cake.

END – part 3


	4. It's Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas - part 4 of 6

**Part 4 of 6**

December 20

Richard stands in front of his desk and simply can’t believe it. There is a tiny little Christmas tree sitting smack-dab in the middle of his blotter. And it’s a very odd little tree too. It’s sitting in a small tub of white sand. He reaches out a hesitant finger to run along one of the branches. It isn’t wood. It’s too fine grained and hard. He bends down to peer at it but still can’t make it out. He straightens up and checks the other desks. Yes, they all have little trees. He looks to Camille for help.

She smiles back,“It’s tree coral.”

“Is it?” he huffs. “It looks like bone.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

He runs his fingers over it once more, fine and smooth and hard and silky, “It’s even brown…” He touches the green bits, “And what’s this?”

She shrugs a self-deprecating laugh, “Sorry, it’s painted sponge. I hope it’s not too garish. It’s all I could think of. Rosie helped – and remember that you are kind to babies!”

He nods, “No, it’s nice. After all, even though we have pine trees here, no one likes cleaning up the needles, do they? Besides, this took care and skill to make. That means more.”

“I’m glad you like it. Having a small tree means only small gifts.”

He looks up now, a bit concerned, “Gifts?”

“Yes, please don’t be angry but everyone is to add to the trees. Nothing fancy…”

He sighs, “Mmm, arts and crafts were never my forte but I’ll try to think of something.”

“Whatever you dream up will be fine, I’m sure,” she answers.

December 21

The little trees are now topped with tiny stars. He bends down to peer closer. Of course, it’s a dried starfish painted white with a tiny ‘FB’ written on the back. He begins to wrack his brains for a decoration idea but comes up empty.

That night is Dwayne’s beach bonfire. There’s a roaring leaping fire with roaring leaping people, about 100 or so, most seem to be cousins of one sort or another, most seem to know Richard by reputation, and the rum flows freely and quickly. A trestle table groans beneath whatever food is brought in. Plates are washed off in the surf and filled up again. There is music and singing and dancing and stories and…

… there’s Richard sitting off to the side watching everything with slight amazement. Camille drops off her donation to the food table and sits down beside him. “Been here long?” she shouts.

He shakes his head, “Only long enough to go partially deaf. Are you hungry? I haven’t had nerve to approach the food yet in case that table collapses and I need to render first aid.”

She pulls him to his feet, only recalling later how firmly he gripped her hand, “I think we’re safe. I’m starved! Let’s eat.” And they do eat. She even manages to sneak some seafood onto his plate under the cover of darkness (not that he doesn’t notice) but he doesn’t mind as there are no arthropod eyeballs staring up at him so it’s all good.

They skip the rum as they are both on duty tomorrow morning but she manages to skirl him into the scrum around the fire and they dance briefly before he stumbles out of the fire’s corona and paces off into the cooler night air. She chases after him and he saves her from tumbling into the waves. She stoops down to splash him with water, “There! That ought to cool you off,” she laughs.

He feels the coolness against his over-heated skin and is thankful. It isn’t just the fire that has him heated up. She’s mesmerizing tonight. Something about the golden red firelight on her skin, her husky laughter, her merry eyes. Somehow, she is glowing and it feels like she is glowing for him alone. He takes her hand and leads her away from the fire, into the shadowy night surrounding them.

They walk along the tide-line for several moments before she ventures, “Are you having a good time?”

“Yes,” he nods, “More than I expected. You?”

She squeezes his hand and halts him, “Oh, yes. And do you know why?” In the night, all she can see is his silhouette and the gleam of his eyes. He shakes his head, not daring to speak. She leans in and whispers, “Because I’m with you. Don’t you know that?” He shakes his head again. She nods firmly, “Don’t you tell me I’m wrong. I know my own mind. This isn’t a debate.”

This time he nods, “Oh, I believe you think you know your own mind… but do you? Do you really?”

“Richard, please allow me to…” but her statement is interrupted by people running down the beach, bearing torches and rum. Seems a midnight dip is in order. Camille raises her eyebrows but Richard’s eyes say ‘NO WAY’ pretty loudly so they swallow whatever else they were going to say and go back to the fire. Richard finishes the night with Camille’s head on his shoulder as he listens to Christmas carols around a bed of coals. He can’t remember a more pleasant time he’s ever spent on sand.

END – part 4


	5. It's Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas - part 5 of 6

**Part 5 of 6**

December 22

There are four tiny angels on the desk trees. Looking closer, he realizes they are made out of tiny hinged bivalves with white shirt buttons for heads and arced paperclip for halos. They are signed ‘DM’. He pauses and thinks hard. He rummages in his desk drawer then curls a tiny bit of black tissue paper from his sweets tin onto his angel’s head. _There,_ he thinks as he nestles it back into his tree, _now it’s perfect._

He isn’t there to see her reaction later in the day when she notices this addition... which is a good thing because it might have stampeded things a few days ahead of schedule and surely ruined everything.

December 23

Now it is Catherine’s turn to host the festivities – and it is very festive indeed! Almost eighty people attend. Shop owners from up and down the street and their partners fill up La Kaz. A smaller party of nine camps out under the party tree across the street. The tree is decked out in red and yellow lights with drifts of white gauzy material simulating snow.

Richard huffs, “This is left-over from the Erzuli Festival, isn’t it?” into Camille’s ear. Camille just shrugs but she knows he is perfectly correct. Erzuli can be called upon anytime in a pinch and she is being called upon pretty damn hard this evening. Maman hasn’t said a word… not a single word… but Camille can hear every word her mother isn’t saying.

As the team jostle for seats and Camille makes sure she is sitting beside Richard, only Dwayne knows what all the red candles on the table really mean. He even helps Catherine light them, whispering, “You’re gonna melt the man right away with all this fire.”

Catherine smiles placidly and whispers back, “It’s not the man I wish to melt but his walls.”

Dwayne nods back, “OK, I’ll go along with that but you maybe shouldn’t worry quite so much. Things have been pretty mellow in the station these past few days. I think they are almost there. If Camille plays her cards right, you might have an extra Poole at this table next year.”

He watches gleefully as Catherine adds more candles to the flickering display of greens.

Richard does notice all the sprigs of ‘Neverdone’ tucked into the centre-piece but simply thinks it’s a nice island touch. He watches the candles burn with contentment. _So soothing. So friendly and inviting. So intimate…_ His thoughts spiral away to much more pleasant musings as a warm little hand slips into his beneath the table.

The meal is suitably mind-numbing so totally satisfying that people are hard put to stay awake for the games and charades that follow. For the first and only time in his adult life, Richard pretends to change a tire, acts out washing the dishes, and mimes the book title of ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time’. Camille laughs so hard she gets the hiccups. He is so pleased with himself that he even joins in on the caroling. A good time is had by all. He is sorry when it is all over and he has to go home.

December 24

Richard is up before the sun, vibrating with expectation. _Tonight! Tonight… tonight is my evening with Camille. At least, I hope that’s what it is._ He has been wrong before… he scoffs at his reflection in the mirror as he knots his tie… hell, he’s been wrong every single time before… but tonight! Oh, he really hopes he isn’t wrong about this!

When he gets to the office, he opens his top drawer and spends several minutes fiddling with something tiny then goes to each desk and leaves his gift. He isn’t sure if anyone will appreciate his efforts but it is the best he can do.

When they all come in, his anxiety is suitably assuaged. They all stare then laugh with delight and thank him most profusely. He blushes with appreciation as he looks to his own tree with the little threaded string of Jelly Babies festooning its branches. _I am just SO English_ , he thinks but for the first time it doesn’t sound like an insult. For the first time, it sounds like a plus.

Oddly enough, his team is thinking the exact same thing.

Exactly.

The day passes. Finally it’s 6 pm and he is practically vibrating with nerves. She has been cool and collected all day long. Has he misread her? Is his radar so totally off that he is wrong about everything? His calm façade is crumbling quite badly by the time they say their goodbyes and wish each other a Merry Christmas.

Camille gives Dwayne and Fidel a kiss as they pass by on their way out.

Richard sees this and stays at his desk until they were gone before venturing cautiously out to collect his kiss.

END – part 5

 


	6. It's Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas - part 6 of 6

**Part 6 of 6**

But Camille stays his hand, ducking back and shaking her head, “Uh-uh. Your kiss will be delivered later… at my place… along with all the other presents I have for you.”

His skin is humming as he dares to murmur, “Will I like my other presents?”

She gives him the most thrilling smile he’s even witnessed in his direction, “Oh, Richard, I hope so!”

He dithers but the words simply burst out, “Um, what with all the excitement and such, I completely forgot to get you anything special. I’m sorry.”

Her smile outshines the previous one, “Oh, mon Coeur, you have exactly what I want most in the whole wide world, don’t you know that?” She sees his flustered reaction and takes pity on him. She reminds herself to speak slowly and carefully just as you would to a wild animal on the cusp of fleeing, “Richard, YOU are my special gift… and I really hope you are ready to share. Are you, do you think? Ready?”

He listens to this incredible statement with aplomb… and a jack-hammer heart. Somehow, he keeps a calm face, “Er, yes, yes, I think I am. Ummm, I hope it’s enough. After all, I’m just me.”

She takes his arm and tucks him into her side for all the world like a lover, “Oh, dearest, somehow I don’t think you will disappoint. Come, let us sally forth and hie to mine. I’ve spent absolute days preparing for tonight. I also hope it’s enough… for you… for us.”

He watches his hand curl around her waist and hears his voice say, “Whatever, wherever, whenever… it will most certainly be enough… more than I deserve, that’s certain.”

She locks the station doors behind them and revels in the jostling closeness of him behind her. She turns to take him in hand, “As to what you deserve, let’s discuss that over a glass of wine, hmmm?”

His eyes glint green sparks, “Oh, yes, the wine. Lots and lots of wine then maybe…”

“Mmmm,” she agrees “then maybe some slow dancing then maybe…”

He is pulling her down the steps, “Can’t you move any faster?” “

Why?” she teases him. “Maybe I want to savour the anticipation. Maybe I want to let my imagination run wild. Maybe I want to kill you with suspense.”

“You’re killing me, all right.” Somehow this desperate complaint sounds much more debonair than he intended. She laughs with delight and several people on the street turn to watch them.

“Oh, great,” he mutters, “Now we have an audience.” He ducks his head and paces on, hands at his sides. He darts glances from side to side, beginning to worry that he will spoil everything after all.

“Oh, relax,” she mutters back, “Just scowl like you usually do and everyone will just think we’re fighting again. Wave your arms around a bit. That always leaves the right impression.” Just to be on the safe side she trumpets, “You’re SO English!” and notes with satisfaction the sudden disinterest on the street.

He is giving her dagger-eyes when they reach her door. She takes out a key with a discrete ‘R’ fob dangling from it and shows it to him. His glare damps down to hushed hope as she says, “This is my first present to you, if you will accept it.”

After a long moment, he takes it out of her hand and stares at it in silence. She is just beginning to worry when he reaches out and unlocks the front door, “Camille, I accept. I do.” He tucks the key (HIS key!) tenderly and reverently into his inside jacket pocket. Right over his heart.

She pats this tiny bump once (most thankfully), ushers him inside, closes the door demurely, then lunges at him not demurely at all, “That’s good enough for me! C’mere, you Detective you... there’s serious crime afoot within these walls and we're going to be collecting evidence into the wee small hours of the night.”

“Thank god!” is all he has time to say before the only Christmas gift they both really want is unwrapped, savoured, enjoyed, consumed, refreshed, and savoured again.

It is the gift that keeps on giving and one that reaps dividends for years to come.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter pushed its way in and I'm going to post it tonight around midnight once all the cooking, cleaning, visiting, gift exchange, and choir duties are done. A very happy Poole Christmas to everyone. S/P


	7. It's Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas - bonus chapter

**unexpected M-ish sequel to “It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot like Christmas**

**Year Three** aka Snowy Snowy Night

Camille checks her watch as she inserts her key into the oaken door to the rustic chalet cottage high up in the French Alps. As snowflakes skirl gently down all around, she shivers and calls back over her shoulder, “We have an hour before my husband returns, time enough for a glass of wine, n’est pas?”

Zoe laughs, “Honestly, Camille, you don’t have to host us in your anniversary suite. We could just as well reminisce about Paris in the resort lounge.”

“I know, I know, but we can be loud here and laugh as much as we want. We were getting looks from some of the other patrons in the lounge.” She struggles with the door as they all stamp their feet to knock off the clinging snow.

Richelle adds, “And we’ll stay only for one glass. We don’t want to spoil your romantic interlude, do we?” She looks to Zoe and gets a vigorous head shake in reply. “Right, one glass then we’re gone!”

The door finally gives and they slip inside.  Camille hangs up her coat on a wall-hook and starts down the little hallway past the kitchen, heading into the intimate livingroom/bedroom where the wine glasses are resting on the fireplace mantle, “I’ll get the glasses, you get the wine out of the…”

As she reaches the end of the little hall, she notices flickering shadows on the floor. As she steps into the room, she notices something else in front of the fireplace. Well, ‘notice’ is a bit of a misnomer here. There is a flash of blinding beauty then everything whites out for a split-second. She hears a roaring noise. Her body temperature sky-rockets. Her fingertips thrill. For some reason she suddenly feels like a whistle that someone is blowing very hot air through. Then reality crashes in and she whirls.

She whirls just in time to step back into the hall and slam both hands into the opposing walls, just in time to prevent Zoe and Richelle from entering the room and turning the corner and seeing…

“So sorry, ladies, but my plans are cancelled! Allez, allez, no visitors right now.” She marches them back to the door, shoves their coats into their arms, and deposits them back out onto the doorstep. “See you both later, maybe, probably… oh, merde!” The door is shut none too politely in their faces and they are alone once more in the gently drifting flakes.

After a stunned moment or two, Richelle mutters, “Well, I never! What came over her?”

Zoe takes her arm and leads her down the step and back towards the resort without a word.

Richelle decides to take umbrage, “How rude! She seemed so nice when we were telling our stories in the lounge. Here, Zoe, you were in front of me when we went down the hall. Did you see anything?”

Zoe takes a deep breath, still trying to process the brief kaleidoscope of images that had flashed before her eyes. _Should I tell her_ , she wonders? _After all, that certainly wasn’t something I was meant to see!_ “I saw a man…” _Yes, a man. A man sitting up hurriedly on a bear-skin rug, pulling the edge up to cover himself. Pale skin glowing by firelight... a flash of eyes… mon Dieu, those eyes!_ She shakes her head and says more firmly, “I saw a man, that’s all.”

Richelle stares at her for a moment then scoffs, “So! Her lover follows them, does he? She’s more French then I thought. Oh, well, it’s none of our business, is it? But kudos to her for managing it. Come, let us go before the husband arrives. I do not enjoy such scenes.”

They hurry away.

Romantic Interlude #1

Camille stands staring at the closed front door and tries to get her heart rate back under control.

She can’t.

She slowly turns to look back up the hall, sees the flickering light on the floor, and swallows dryly. Somehow she puts one foot in front of the other and glides towards that light like a sleepwalker. She pauses at the corner, takes a deep breath, and steps in. She turns her head and tips her face down towards… her vision.

Her eyes flash closed. Ah, merde! He’s just as beautiful huddled behind that concealing flap of rug as he’d been just the moment before when she’d seen him spread out in all his glory! She forces her eyes open and takes the sensory overload like a big girl.

His eyes flash anxiously as he slowly sits up and begins to fiddle with the edge of the rug, “Oh, Christ, Camille! Who were those people? I almost had a heart attack!”

She just stands there, lost in his fabulosity. Somehow she finds her voice, “I met them over lunch. We had Paris in common and I invited them back for some wine. I thought you weren’t due back for another hour…”

He huffs a shaky laugh, “Well, yes, that was the plan but it turns out I didn’t want to stay away. I came back early and thought I’d surprise you.” He is relaxing now, stretching out a bit.

She sees a swell of creamy thigh and drops to her knees. Her hands are reaching for the rug.

He sees this and meets her eyes, “Oh, I see. Back to our normally scheduled program, are we?”

She draws the rug away, lays it flat on the floor, smooths it down, “Yes, we jolly well are! Do you mind?” She fights like hell to keep her eyes focussed on his. Her hands however have a mind of their own. They are sending blissful sensations streaming up her arms.

His eyes slip closed and he lay back onto one elbow, “You know very well that nothing you do alarms me at all anymore.” He gestures off to one side. Her eyes are torn away to see the wine and 2 goblets near to hand, “And you wouldn’t have found the wine in the kitchen. It’s right here. Thirsty?” This last word is spoken in a manner unlike anything he would have uttered in his previous life.

She leans forward, her hands on his chest. She presses ever so gently and he responds ever so slowly. She gives him one last semi-in-control look and says, “Sorry, the wine will have to wait.”

As she enters once more into her secret garden of delights, he laughs, “Wife! Must you engage before you undress?”

She murmurs through hot kisses, “Maybe I’d like to feast while suited, ever think of that?”

He is flushing a most lovely rosy hue, “Oh, Camille, whatever you want. Take it.”

“Thank you,” she whispers against him, “I will.”

Back at the chalet

Later that evening, Richelle and Zoe spy Camille in a dark corner of the dining room drinking champagne by candlelight, her arm twined in a man’s as they drink from each other’s flutes.

Richelle grouses, “Oh, the nerve of some people. Imagine flaunting him in public like this! She’d better be careful or we’ll have a murder if the husband sees. Just think! A crime of passion right here!”

Zoe shakes her head, “I don’t think so.” _I won’t forget those eyes in a hurry._ “Don’t you see the matching wedding rings? That’s not her lover, that’s her husband.”

“What?! Impossible. Wives don’t look at their husbands that way, only at other women’s husbands.”

“Well, he’s certainly looking at her that way. Come on, we’d better give them their privacy. This is no time to be friendly.”

“No, obviously not. They look plenty friendly already. What’s that he just said? Something about a rug? Why is that so funny?”

_Oh, dear. The rug. Don’t remind me! I don’t need that image stuck in my head, thank you very much!_ “Come on, Richelle, let’s try the bar. We can order from the kitchen there. Who knows? Maybe we’ll meet some men of our own just as nice.” As they leave the room, Zoe can’t help casting one last glance back and thinking, _but somehow I doubt it_.

Soon afterwards, they see Camille and her man leaving. He has a bottle of something expensive by the neck in one hand and the other hand wrapped around her hip. He is laughing and chivvying her along.

“Oh,” Zoe sighs, “Lucky girl.”

“Stop it,” Richelle grouses, disappointed that there hadn’t been any suitable men in the bar. She props her chin in her hand as they watch the couple go past, “Something tells me we won’t be seeing her anytime soon. I know I wouldn’t waste of moment of his time.” She raises her glass. As they toast each other in envy, the couple dash out into the gentle snowy night, back to their fireplace and the rug and whatever else awaits them.

It is an anniversary, after all.

Romantic Interlude #2

The bed of coals flares up just as hotly as they do, burning brightly and fiercely as they celebrate by golden firelight. Later, he folds the rug over them as they rest in front of the fireplace. He watches the flames burn down quietly, relishing the cool air on his chest and shoulders. He is hot as blazes everywhere else she touches him.

He smiles and kisses her drowsy temple, “Rest now, love.” Her hand tightens on his hip. He catches it and draws it up for another kiss, “Here now, time enough for that later. You are going to burn yourself out if you keep up this frantic pace.”

She turns her face off his shoulder and kisses his throat, “Nonsense, my fire is constantly fed new fuel. It will never burn out.”

He smiles at that, “Never?”

She snuggles down beneath the rug and sighs most contentedly, “No, never. Sorry.”

He folds an arm beneath his head and settles onto his back. Her hand flashes to him automatically and he just has to smile again, “Ah, so I see. Well, thank god for small miracles is all I can say.”

She touches him in the manner he has become accustomed to, “Mmmm, me too, what you said.”

“Eloquent as always, aren’t you? But some of your last comments were in French. Care to translate?”

“Mmm,” she shifts at his side, “Maybe in a few minutes. Not right now. Burnt out, remember?”

“Yes, I remember… and I don’t believe it for a moment. You are just so French.” She peels back one eyelid and simply looks at him. He kisses her eyelashes and wraps her back into his arms, “To which I say again, thank god.”

They both settle back and watch the fire burn down, knowing that it can be brought back to roaring ferocity anytime they choose.

Kind of like each other.

END


	8. Oooh-ooh, That Lovin' Feelin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is dedicated to IsabelMC who gave me the idea. I did not check tax laws, just wrote the scene that popped into my head. Thanks, Isabel!

** Oooh-ooh, That Lovin’ Feelin’ **

It’s at least 100 degrees beneath the station ceiling fan and all it’s doing is blowing hot air down onto the man hunched at the desk below. Even without the heat and the ever-lasting hot wet wool blanket that passes for air down here in the tropics, this man, one Richard Poole, would be sweating.

He would be sweating not because there is a lull in the crime rate and he is most assiduously making use of his down time. No. He would be sweating not because he’s nearing the end of a long hard fiduciary slog that has taken him several days to near the finish line. No. He wouldn’t even be sweating due to the sultry weight of the Caribbean day pressing down on top of his woolen-clad body. No.

He would be sweating because he is totting up his taxes and he doesn’t like the looming final figure.

Not one bit.

He will have to pay taxes in not one but TWO countries. He has had to fill in not one but TWO very different yet incomprehensible tax forms. He’s had to remember all the complicated maths he’d learned and forgotten then relearned just in order to comply with both sets of criteria. He’s had to unlimber all his legal jargon just to follow the instructions. He has, in short, reached the figurative end of his rather frayed and chewed-upon rope.

His Croydon domicile is a minus.

Him not owning his own home on Saint-Marie is a minus.

His being single? A minus.

No dependents? Minus.

All his careful scrimping and saving, all his ‘sock it away for a rainy day’ instincts. BIG minus!

The only plus? He might just have enough liquid capital to pay his taxes… if he stops eating out… if he returns his latest batch of dress shirts… if he turns out his lights at 9pm every night… if he stops using the washing machine… and if he starts beach-combing looking for spare change dropped by the tourists.

He slams his fists down onto his desk top, snapping his hapless (and rather tired) pen in two. “Blast!” he shouts. He slams his fists down a second time. “Damn AND blast!” he shouts again.

In the station, total silence falls but he doesn’t notice.

In mounting frustration he does the math again. Stares at the answer. Does it again. And again.

Finally, in defeat and stubborn non-compliance, he slumps back in his chair, covers his face, and moans, “I need a big house, a wife, and at least six kids just to break even.”

Total silence is noisy compared to the absolute absence of sound now ringing within these four walls.

This gets his attention. He slips his hands down just enough to show his eyes and glances about. Three very different faces are staring back at him from various places in the room, staring back with three very different expressions.

First, there’s Fidel, standing in the middle of the room, interrupted on his way to Dwayne’s desk with a report in his hand. Fidel looks politely concerned, nods small and says, “Taxes. Don’t you hate them?” He continues to Dwayne’s desk, drops the report then turns back to his own desk.

Richard’s eyes deke to Dwayne who is nodding with a knowing smile flirting at the corners of his mouth, “Don’t look at ME, Chief. I’m not the marryin’ kind.” At the look on his boss’ face, Dwayne’s smile breaks out into a cheerful and cheeky grin while his eyes amble slowly to look across the room to the last person of consideration.

Richard’s eyes follow Dwayne’s prompt and now he’s looking into the sloe-eyed speculative gaze of his Detective Sergeant. A sudden dry throat clicks as Richard swallows. _Why is she looking at me like that?_ he wonders faintly.

 **You know** , a little voice chuckles, **you know very well**.

 _No, I don’t!_ his mind babbles. _No, I…_

But whatever lame Band-Aid his mind is about to lay over this latest faux pas, it is whipped out of his metaphorical hand by Camille. She slowly stands and comes around her desk, heading right for him. He feels suddenly endangered, like one of those little Jefferson Salamanders feeling the vibration of the earth-movers rumbling closer and closer, coming to up-end its little world and kill it deader than dead.

Kill it or jug it up as a cherished pet to keep forever and ever, halleluiah, amen.

He pushes away from his desk and almost makes it to his feet before she is at his side, petting him, soothing him, measuring him up for a nice big jar, “There, there, sir, I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. Why don’t you come down to La Kaz with me for a nice calming pot of tea? I think I may have a simple solution to all your problems.”

She slips his jacket off its hook, slides it onto his shoulders. He shrugs into it on pure reflex. He stands on pure reflex. The thought of tea gets his feet moving and he follows her out the door without a single suspicion in his head.

 _Tea and Camille_ , he thinks. _What a nice combination_. Why, she is even now telling him she knows a school-mate right here in town, a CPA of renown, who excels at taxes. If there is any way to ease Richard’s tax burden then her friend is just the woman to do it. If there is ANY way at all, Janine will find it. And, of course, Camille will do whatever she can to help him too. Of course, she will. That’s what good friends are for, right? Right.

As their voices dwindle and fade, Fidel and Dwayne regard one another. Fidel still looks a bit concerned but Dwayne’s smile is confident as he leans back and clasps his hands behind his head, “If I’m any judge of women, I predict the Chief’s taxes will be a sight more simplified and his life a LOT more complicated by this same time next year.”

“What do you mean, Dwayne?”

“How much did your situation change when Rosie came along?”

“Oh, tons. We call her our ‘little bread-winner’ at tax time.”

“Mmm-hmm. And six kids? What would that do to a man’s tax problems?”

“I can’t even imagine! Why?”

Dwayne smiles anew, “The Chief’s got a DS on his back trail and she’s leadin’ him straight to a CPA that doesn’t believe men are capable of takin’ care of themselves day to day, let alone at this time of the year.” He laughs now, a relieved ‘better him than me’ laugh, “Oh, yeah. He’s toast.”

Fidel laughs, “No, no, Dwayne, I’m sure you’re reading more into it than it really is. Camille’s just trying to help him out, that’s all.”

Dwayne smirks, “Yeah, but help him outta what? I reckon it’s his bachelor-hood she’s really after.”

Fidel’s face falls blank then he reaches into his pocket and slaps a ten-dollar bill onto his desk top, “Ten bucks says you’re wrong!”

Dwayne sighs and fishes a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and lays it atop his own desk, “OK, you’re on. But!” He fixes Fidel with knowing eyes, “If you think I’m gonna claim this chump bet as income… you gotta 'nother think coming!”

Fidel harrumphs and they both settle down to their shift, waiting for their superior officers to return and the bet to be settled.

Fidel isn’t really all that worried. Even if Dwayne IS right, it will be a good thing for the Chief.

As for Dwayne, he is already thinking about the drinks he will be spending the money on.

(Those drinks taste as sweet as victory can taste. Later. After all the crowing is done.)

END


	9. Horses

Horses

Richard is being hunted.

There are two gunmen. One is stalking him in the dark shadowy loft. The other is covering all the outside exits. As Richard flits silently from bale to bale, the sweet smell of horse wafts up from below. If the circumstances weren’t so dire, Richard would be fondly remembering rainy afternoons nestled in the hay mow of his maternal grandfather’s little barn. He’d spent many a happy childhood hour there, reading, playing with his tin soldiers, imagining his future as an astronaut. _Better days_ , he thinks sadly. _Too bad I had to grow up and become a target._

He bitterly regrets coming here on his own. He hadn’t really given Dwayne’s off-hand comment the due consideration it had deserved - _That drug always smells so sweet, don’t it? It always reminds me of new-mown hay._ As he sidles along, keeping an eye on his pursuer, Richard nods to himself. _You’re right, Dwayne, as usual , whenever it’s a slightly criminal outlook. It DOES smell like new-mown hay._

Ah, yes, freshly mown hay. Hay bales. The only horse barn on the island. Sunrise rides in the surf. So romantic. So touristy. So perfect for moving drugs on and off the island. Sure enough, he’d spotted the bales marked with blue twine but he’d also been spotted in turn and now he is on the run, being hunted in this dusty space, keeping the gunman in sight and thinking three steps ahead.

He is searching. He knows it is here somewhere but where? His shoe steps on something beneath the loose hay. He stoops, feels, finds the metal ring and says a thankful prayer. He lifts the trapdoor and slips down into darker darkness, warmth rising to meet him as he hangs briefly in mid-air before saying a second prayer and letting himself drop.

He is in luck. He drops only a few feet into a manger, landing on top of a mound of hay. Unfortunately, the tethered horses are startled by his unexpected appearance and there is quite a bit of noise and clatter as they jostle and call to one another. He hears a voice call out from above and an answering call from somewhere close by. The gunmen know he’s out of the mow and down amongst the horses now! He has to escape and quickly!

He slips out of the manger and realizes that he is hemmed in by many animals all tramping and curvetting about. He can’t escape! He won’t be able to get through the horses until they settle. There’s nothing for it. He drops to his knees and crams himself in beneath the manger, scooping up loose hay and covering himself as best he can. He stills his breathing, slows his heart, and becomes one with the fodder. Huge hooves clop explosively only inches away from his face.

The horses are easing. They are tourist horses. Patient. Used to humans. Blasé. Richard hopes they don’t give him away. A snuffling nose comes down to investigate. He remembers his grandfather’s horses, Doc and Skip, and reaches out to let the animal smell him. A phrase swims up in his memory and he whispers, “Cor, ti lwmp mawr o ceffyl. Ya big lump o’ cob. Setlo'ch hun i lawr. Set yersel’ doon.” The nose pauses then nuzzles his hand before he withdraws it to burrow into his cover.

Big Liz sniffs carefully.  **< Man.  Beneath the sweet-grass.  How odd.> ** But no odder than some of the visitors she carries every day. And the Man has spoken odd words - words that sparked something in her horsey little mind. Old words. Words from her colt-hood. Words from the gaffer. **< Cob.  That meant her, didn't it?  Doon.  That meant be quiet.>**  She snorts in acceptance, sets all four hooves squarely, and quiets as instructed.  The Man stirs and she feels a rewarding caress. She readies herself for whatever is going to be demanded of her and her kind.

Black Andy (her first born) on her right chuffs at her. She prods him with her nose. He stills. She turns to Sofie (her second born) on her left and prods her. Sofie stills. They pass the prod down the line to the rest of the herd. They all still. Big Liz is queen of this stable and she is not to be trifled with!

Her ears prick. She hears other men sneaking about. Her head shoots up, eyes and nostrils flaring in alarm! She smells another memory from her colt-hood! The bitter stink of thunder tools! More than anything she does NOT want to endure the shocking pain of hearing one of those tools go off inside her stable! Her nice quiet peaceful stable.  **< This isn't a hunting place!  Why would men bring thunder into her place?  These must be bad men who don't care about horses.>**

She drops her nose to the floor. Checks. Yes, she can smell it. Fear. The Man is afraid. She already knows he is not afraid of her kind so it must be the other men. Her brain sparks. **< Do men hunter other men?> ** Nothing would surprise her after all these years. Men are not to be understood, only obeyed.

Her ears go back. **< Just obeyed?  No.  Something else.  Sometimes.  Sometimes they need to be protected.>**  She nickers low in her throat and all the horses are on alert. Big Liz settles her haunches and the signal goes out. The herd shifts its weight onto front hooves and listens.

The bitter smell is drawing nearer. It is in the stable now. Quiet footsteps are heard in the narrow walkway right behind the tense animals. Big Liz cocks one back hoof and taps it on the floor. She hears answering taps. Little Irene on the far end of the line lashes out first. The answering man-oath is very gratifying to equine ears. Now Jolly Matt pistons out. Then Chris. Then Grey Peter. Then Mac and Brown Betty. Within moments the stable is alive with dancing snorting horses as they kick out with deadly force.

The men withdraw with life and limb intact. Barely. And limping.

Just audible above the ruckus, Richard hears one of them shout, “He can’t be in there with those crazy nags. They’d stomp him to jelly! He must have snuck past us somehow. We’d better run for it.”

The second man shouts back, “What about the stuff? Are we just gonna leave it up there?”

The first voice is fainter now, “You want to carry five bales on your back? Of course we’re leaving it there! Let big Ricardo worry about it. It was his bright idea in the first place. We’re outta here!”

Richard nods. Now he has the final clue. He smiles. Let them look for him outside. Better yet, let them leg it! He reaches for his cell phone but his pocket is empty. He shrugs. Oh, well, he doesn’t really need it. Relief washes through him as he realizes he is safe. He stretches out on the hay and sighs. He’ll wait a bit more then make good his escape. He closes his eyes.

Within moments he is asleep and dreaming of fragrant afternoons in his grandfather’s barn.

The horses know they are alone before Richard does. They whicker and signal by tail swish and begin to doze off. They drowse the rest of the night while breathing the Man’s scent, a lovely slightly lime-ish smell. Very soothing. Very relaxing. Quite distinctive.

Next morning, Richard shows up with chaff in his hair but big Ricardo is in the cells before noon and he has a lot of company before nightfall. The local drug ring is busted wide open and the ripples spread out to other islands and right into the United States. Kudos rain down on everyone involved. The Commissioner laps it up as his due but does remember to thank the one person solely responsible who, in turn, thanks his team for handing him all the clues.

Once the case is sewn up several weeks later, Richard treats his officers to an early lunch.

Everyone in La Kaz is just relaxing into the soft Caribbean air when something inexplicable and totally wondrous happens.

Horses. Plodding along the surf line down on the beach, bearing sun-burnt tourists and their rambunctious offspring.

Horses. Lifting their heads, tasting the air, slowing their gait to come to a complete standstill despite the best efforts of their hapless riders.

Horses. Veering suddenly off the beach and heading into town at a fast clip.

Horses. Jostling and shoving their faces into a window, calling low and reaching for a man who looks back in surprise but who comes out to them and pats their noses and calls them ‘cob’ and ‘great lumps’ and all sorts of arcane names lost to a younger generation.

Horses. Nose-bumping and jostling the man with every evidence of good humor. The man sways under their cheery assault and almost looks like he is dancing within the circle of tons of horse-flesh.

Tourists gather round in jolly hilarity and take pictures.

The locals draw back in slightly superstitious caution and nod to one another. _Oh, yes, he’s the magic man. Even the horses know._

His team just watches, seeing all the silent knowing looks from the islanders. The team is part of the magic even if they don’t understand it. They grin at one another, quirking eyebrows to their boss. He’s magic, all right. Pure and simple. They don’t need to understand it. They only need to accept it. Bask in it. Learn from it.

And do everything within their power to keep him going.

END


End file.
